or the stunning Hollywood good looks of that actress that Jackson had brought to the Fourth of July picnic. But there was something about her that hit him like a fist in the stomach.
She was dressed in a lawyerlike tailored suit, brown with a cream-colored blouse beneath the buttoned jacket, and low-heeled brown pumps. Her makeup and shoulder-length bobbed hair were equally low-key. But the plainness of her clothes could not disguise the fact that her figure was enticingly curved, and the expanse of leg that showed beneath her knee-length skirt was shapely. Her hair, smoothly curved under, was thick, black and lustrous, and her light olive skin and huge brown eyes, ringed by thick black lashes, had little need of makeup. She was vivid, warm, passionate…and in an utter fury about something.
“I insist on seeing Sheriff Sutton!” she snapped, leaning forward pugnaciously toward his secretary. “Whatever wonderfully important thing he’s doing, I suggest you go in there and tell him—”
“Why don’t you just tell me yourself?” Quinn suggested lightly.
Both women, startled, swiveled to face him.
Lisa was, for the moment, bereft of speech. Sheriff Sutton was, indeed, a prototypical sheriff, but not the middle-aged redneck image she had envisioned. He was, rather, what the State Association of Sheriffs might use as a poster boy. In his early thirties, he was tall, even without the added inches of the cowboy boots on his feet, and his long, lean body and wide shoulders filled out the tan shirt and slacks of the sheriff’s uniform to perfection. Lisa was aware, with some surprise—and chagrin—of a deep, primitive thrill of response that snaked down through her abdomen at the sight of him. Nor was it just the muscular set of his body encased in the Western and decidedly masculine uniform that could make a woman’s heart beat a little faster. His face was something that drew one’s eye.
He was not exactly handsome, though he had even features and a well-cut mouth that stirred another primeval response in Lisa. A scar beside that mouth and the determined set of his jaw gave his face a certain toughness in repose. And when he smiled, as he did now, his mahogany-brown eyes twinkled with an impishness, his mouth quirking in a way that was far too boyish to be termed handsome. What he was, Lisa thought, as he walked toward her now, eyes alight and focused solely on her, was a charmer. She had met other men like him—not many, admittedly, but a few—and though they might not be the best-looking man around or the smartest or the wealthiest, they were invariably devastating to the female sex.
“Sheriff Quinn Sutton,” he said now, extending his hand and smiling into her eyes in a way that said they were the only two people in the room. “Pleased to meet you.”
Lisa squared her shoulders. Sheriff Sutton was going to find out that this was one woman who was immune to his charm. “Lisa Mendoza,” she replied in a clipped, cool voice and gave his hand a brief shake. “I am Benny Hernandez’s attorney.”
“Are you now?” Sutton’s eyebrows rose in lazy surprise. “Well, that’s interesting. I didn’t realize he had one.”
“Obviously, or I assume you would have chosen someone else to ride roughshod over.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I think you know what I’m talking about,” Lisa replied calmly, not fooled by his air of bemusement. “You arrested and are holding my client without any basis. I presume that in the general way you are intelligent enough to find someone without an attorney to protect their rights when you are in the mood for harassing minorities.”
The smile left his eyes, and his brows snapped together. “Now just a minute, Ms. Mendoza…”
“I would like to see my client now,” Lisa went on, plowing right through his attempt to explain himself.
Anger flashed in his red-brown eyes, and Lisa thought he was about to fire back a response, but he only set his jaw and replied, tight-lipped, “Come with me.”
He swung around, strode out of the office and down the hall without looking back to see if she was following him. Lisa hurried out the door after him, determined not to fall behind his long-legged stride. He led her to the end of the hall and turned down another corridor, leading her down a set of stairs and through another institutionally beige hallway or two before coming to a set of locked metal double doors, flanked by a window covered with a metal grille. The uniformed man behind the window looked out at them.
“Hey, Sheriff,” he said in a Texas twang and reached over to push a button.
There was a loud metallic noise as the doors unlocked, and Sheriff Sutton pushed one of them open and walked through, holding it open for Lisa.
“Bring Benny down to visitation,” he told the deputy in the small room behind the window, now looking out at them through a matching window on this side of the doors.
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” the man replied, his eyes going curiously over to Lisa. Lisa felt sure he was wondering who she was, but there had been a note in the sheriff’s voice that did not invite questions.
He walked her down a short hallway past closed doors and ushered her into a small room. There was little in the room except a cheap metal table in the center, bolted to the floor, and a chair on either side of it, also bolted securely to the floor. Lisa set her briefcase down on the table and turned to face the door. She wanted to get a good look at her client when he walked in, alert for any sign of scrapes, cuts or bruises.
Somewhat to her surprise, when the door opened, escorted in by the deputy, the slight teenaged boy dressed in an orange jail jumpsuit was not even wearing manacles. A quick but intent inspection revealed no mark on his pleasant face. His eyes widened a little when he saw her, and he blurted out, “Who are you?”
“I am your attorney, Benny,” Lisa told him with a smile, reaching out to shake his hand. “My name is Lisa Mendoza. I’m here to help you.”
He looked a little disconcerted but shook her hand tentatively, glancing from her to the sheriff as if for explanation. Sheriff Sutton merely shrugged.
Benny launched into rapid-fire Spanish, and Lisa held up her hands in a stopping gesture.
“Wait. I’m sorry. I—I’m afraid I don’t speak Spanish,” she told him, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
The boy stared at her in some astonishment, and behind her she heard the sheriff let out a guffaw of laughter, quickly stifled. She turned toward him, sending him a furious glance. “I will need a translator, Sheriff.”
His eyes danced merrily, and Lisa could feel her blush deepening. Her lack of knowledge of her ancestors’ language was embarrassing enough at any time, but it was far worse in front of this man, who she was sure was delighting in her discomfiture.
“Okay,” he replied, struggling to keep his lips straight. “I can help you out.”
“You?” Her brows soared in surprise. “You speak Spanish?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted, the grin twitching back onto his lips. “I was a cop in San Antonio for eight years. It’s kind of unavoidable. ’Course, if you’d rather have a native speaker, I can send down Deputy Padilla.”
“A law enforcement official would hardly provide the confidentiality that—” Lisa shot back hotly.
“No, hey, that’s okay,” Benny interrupted pacifically. “I can speak English instead. It’s
